


The Hand That's Dealt

by Regan_V



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regan_V/pseuds/Regan_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filch might be a squib, but he was a pureblood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand That's Dealt

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Miss Morland, as part of the 2009 HP Beholder Exchange. My thanks to Pir8fancier for a stellar beta.

Young Snape took care of the jinxed mop with a simple Finite and turned to face Filch, wand dangling casually from his hand.

“Anything else for me this week?” he asked.

Filch started to shake his head, and then remembered the book he’d confiscated from a third year who’d been lurking near the Slytherin common room entrance. It appeared to be a simple primer on charms, but he could sense something else radiating off it, although he didn’t want to admit to Snape that he couldn’t actually see it. “One more thing for you to check over,” he said slowly, pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk.

Snape crossed over to where he stood, and looked down into the drawer. “That’s interesting,” he commented. “There’s a glamour cast over the title. Someone’s been into the Restricted Section, I see. Who’d you take it off of?”

Filch rummaged through the pile of paper on his desk, and found the ledger buried under a folder. He flipped it open to the page for this week and held his candle a bit closer to the page, so he could read it. But his eyes watered, and the letters blurred.

“Lumos maximus”

Suddenly the room was twice as bright, and Filch could read the characters easily. “Julius Diggory,” he read aloud.

Snape nodded, and extinguished the light. His office now seemed twice as dark, Filch realized. Snape glanced around him, as if suddenly noticing how little light the candles afforded.

“You ought to . . . get something in here, so you can read all this paperwork,” he commented.

Filch grunted, but didn’t respond. Snape was a half-blood, and ought to know that Muggle lights wouldn’t work in the castle. But then, being raised Muggle wouldn’t mean that he understood what it was like to live as a Squib, would it?

“Here’s the list of this week’s detentions,” he said, holding out a sheet of parchment. “I’ve put a check next to those who’ll be serving detention with me, so you can make sure the others did their time with one of the professors.”

Snape took the sheet without comment, tucking away his wand.

“Not that any of them know how to give a proper detention,” Filch muttered under his breath. The Headmaster probably thought that passing out lollipops would be a suitable punishment. And he’d heard that Sprout had set two girls from her House who’d been sent for detention with her last month to arranging flowers. In vases.

At least Snape could be counted on to force his students to serve a proper detention. Only a few years older than the seventh years, he didn’t stand for any nonsense in class, Filch knew. And he sometimes supported Filch in staff discussions, not that there was any hope of persuading the Headmaster to demand better behavior from the grubby lot they called “pupils” at this school.

He heard Snape snort lightly as he closed the office door behind him. Filch lit two more candles.

**********

 

The next Friday, Snape showed up at his office with a small package under his arm and thrust it at him. Filch opened the box and saw that it was a lamp, of sorts. A Muggle lamp. He felt offended.

“That sort of power . . . ‘lectricity? Doesn’t work here. You ought to know that, boy,” he snapped.

Or was Snape lording it over him? Rubbing it in that Filch couldn’t manage a Lumos. Filch sometimes wondered how Snape recalled the detentions he’d served with Filch, only a few years ago. Neither he nor the older Black boy had ever been able to keep from fighting with each other, although Filch had soon learned to separate them, since joint detentions had not worked out well.

“I’m not stupid,” Snape said softly. “It runs on batteries. Let me show you.”

Once loaded up with the batteries, the lamp did indeed work splendidly. His office had never been so well lit. He walked around the desk, admiring the light from all angles, and then glanced at Snape. In this light, he could see how smooth the skin on Snape’s cheeks and neck was. The boy had never been that much to look at, but he was still young enough that his skin had a fine-grained quality, and his eyes were bright. Snape looked back at him steadily.

“Well. Thank you.” Filch stopped, not sure what else to say. Then he remembered that it was a Friday night, and neither of them would have to get up early tomorrow. “I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you a drink in Hogsmeade, in return?”

He was a bit hesitant to make the offer, but Snape didn’t have anyone else to go drinking with, as far as he knew. He’d heard that Snape was invited to an occasional weekend at the Malfoys’ grand estate, but he never seemed to go anywhere else. Most of the boys Snape had known were either dead or in prison.

Snape nodded. “After you’ve shown me what needs taken care of. What have you got this week?”

Filch grunted and turned to pull open a filing cabinet drawer. He’d taken something very unusual off of young Applethwaite on Wednesday, and wondered if it would prove serious enough to justify additional detentions. Snape would surely support him, if so, since the culprit was a Gryffindor.

**********

 

The third time they set out from the castle to get a drink on a Friday evening, after going over the week’s list of detentions and confiscated objects, Snape paused after they passed the gates of Hogwarts.

"I wondered if you'd like to try someplace other than Rosmerta's tonight," he said, Snape's voice uncharacteristically shy. Filch looked at him, curious.

"Where else?" He'd had a falling out, long ago, with the Headmaster’s brother and avoided the Hogshead.

Snape flushed . "Well, there are pubs near where I grew up that I thought we might try."

Filch was taken aback. "A Muggle pub?"

"Ah, yes. I had an uncle who took me to his favorite one, sometimes, when I was home for the hols. I rather fancied going back and seeing if it's still the same."

Filch wasn't sure if this was the real reason, or if Snape was making some oblique point about his own lack of magic. But he couldn't think of a reason to refuse. "If you like," he grumbled.

Snape took his arm and turned on the spot. They came out in an alley that opened on to a darkened side street, lined with rows of small houses. A pub stood on one corner a little bit up the street, its yellow lights spilling out on to the dark road.

Snape murmured something and suddenly his robes disappeared. Even in the dim light, Filch could make out that Snape’s clothes now seemed quite Muggle: he was more fit than Filch would have given him credit for, too. Filch could pass already, of course; he wasn't entitled to wear a teacher's robes.

Inside, the pub was shabby but comfortable. It seemed to be doing a brisk business: Muggles were crowded four deep at the bar. The problem with Muggles, Filch thought, was that there were so many of them.

Their ale was quite good, however. He sat with Snape, and watched two younger men in jeans throw small pointed arrows at a round target on the wall. It was always a pleasure to watch fit young men in Muggle-style trousers, and Filch slowly relaxed enough to enjoy his beer, in spite of the unfamiliar surroundings.

Snape leaned back, and Filch realized that he was watching the game as well. Snape saw him checking out the arses on the two young Muggles, and gave a slight, crooked smile. “This place has hardly changed,” he said after a bit, sounding faintly surprised.

“Did you expect it to?” Filch had no idea what one might expect of a Muggle establishment. He did know that things had changed a lot in the Muggle world over the last few generations; they always seemed to be getting new gadgets. To compensate for their lack of magic, he supposed.

“I suppose not,” Snape responded after a pause. “Everything---the war, the Dark Lord---it never happened here.”

Filch shrugged. He’d never been that interested in Muggle society, and wanted another beer. But he hadn’t any Muggle money, of course, and didn’t want to propose that Snape buy a second round.

Snape looked at him and one corner of his mouth turned up. “Were you ever tempted to escape here? I mean, the Dark Lord was a greater threat to you than to most. And you could fit in here.”

Filch stared at him. “I would not. I’m a Pureblood.” Which was more than Snape could say.

“I know you haven’t any family here,” Snape responded slowly. “But, well, things might be easier for you here. Muggles have so many devices you’d find useful.”

Filch drew himself up. “That’s as may be. But Filches have been wizards since . . . well, we may not be wealthy, but we’re a very old family. I’ve got kin in Hogsmeade, and my cousin’s got shop on Diagon Alley.” He had nothing in common with a pack of Muggles. But maybe that was something that a half-blood wouldn’t understand.

Snape nodded and offered to buy another round. Filch accepted the peace offering, and sat there sipping the foamy brown ale, while Snape explained the rules of “darts” to him. It gave them both an excuse to watch the fit young Muggles, and partway through the second drink, Filch realized that he was enjoying himself.

**********

 

The following week, they went back to Rosmerta’s. Filch proposed a game of cribbage, since he knew that Rosmerta kept a board and cards behind the bar.

Snape gave him that slight, one-sided smile. “I used to play that with my uncle, years ago.”

Filch was mildly surprised. “Muggles play it, too, do they?”

Snape nodded, and cut the card pack. He dealt first, and they settled down to serious play. Snape frowned the first time Filch had a double run of cards, and looked very sour by the end of the game. Filch won easily.

No surprise that Snape would be a poor loser. “I’ll buy the next round,” he offered, signaling Rosmerta. Snape nodded curtly, and handed over the cards for Filch’s deal.

As Filch shuffled the cards, he sensed a slight whiff of magic somewhere near. As always, it was like the lightest of breezes tickling the back of his neck, and he closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to locate its source. Snape suddenly seemed placid and Filch felt a growing suspicion, but dealt the cards anyway. The magic could have come from any of the surrounding tables, after all.

This game went more quickly than the first, and Snape won handily. Filch pressed his lips together, but Snape seemed quite pleased with himself and suddenly more expansive. Of course, he was on his third beer now.

But those were things that made a long day end well: beer and cribbage. Snape was maybe too young to understand how small pleasures were the only ones a man could count on, in the end. But Filch knew.

“Another game?” he asked, shuffling the cards. Snape nodded and reached out to take the deck. This time, Filch didn’t sense any magic when Snape dealt. He relaxed, and sipped his ale.

***********

 

The first Friday after Easter hols, they set back from Rosmerta’s a bit later than usual.

Snape had won the last three hands of cribbage. Filch hadn’t sensed any magic, though. But Snape had drunk a little too much, maybe. He staggered a little when they were about half a mile outside Hogsmeade, pausing to lean up against a tree by the side of the road.

Snape threw his head back, and stared up at the night sky. “We’re almost at the full,” he said softly.

Filch followed his gaze. They were about two days away from a full moon, he reckoned. They were far enough from town that his eyes had adjusted, and the moonlight was bright enough to see Snape’s features pretty well. His head was still tilted back against the tree trunk, and his neck was exposed.

Snape wasn’t as good looking as the young men Filch hired on the occasional visit to Diagon. But he was fit, and he was right to hand. Filch was suddenly curious to see what he smelled like. He’d had a few drinks, too.

He moved close to Snape and dipped his head down to smell Snape’s neck. A smoky, musky scent went right through him and his hand dropped down to Snape’s crotch, cupping what he found there. Snape let out an Ahhhh but didn’t protest; he closed his eyes and settled his body back against the tree more firmly.

Filch knew an opportunity when he saw one. Deftly undoing the top of Snape’s trousers, he then plunged his hand down between the soft fold of fabric and Snape's belly to stroke the half-hard cock he found below. It was warm and the skin was like silk; Filch suddenly wanted to taste it.

He dropped to his knees and pulled down Snape’s trousers enough so that his young cock sprang free, before dipping down to run his tongue along the underside. Snape made a noise—no protest that was for sure–and Filch swiped the cockhead with his tongue; Snape moaned above him.

He could sense the magic that coursed through Snape, pulsing through his groin and cock, and Filch swallowed it whole, sucking and laving the vein along the underside with his tongue. Snape moaned again, and reached down to clutch Filch’s hair, thrusting slightly into his mouth.

Snape’s musky scent, the feel of his magic running along the back of Filch’s neck, and the moans that he was drawing forth from Snape in a steady stream all went right to his cock, and Filch fumbled his own trousers open with one hand and started to stroke himself. His own hand felt good and he hollowed out his cheeks to suck a bit harder, while Snape writhed under his mouth and continued to thrust his hips back and forth deeper into Filch’s mouth. Filch grunted and used his free hand to press Snape’s hips back against the tree, controlling how fast Snape thrust into his mouth.

Snape shuddered and flooded his mouth, and the cry he gave pushed Filch over the edge. He spurted over his own hand, hitting the bottom of Snape’s robes, too.

Snape helped him to stand, and glanced down at his robes before murmuring something, and the sticky feeling around Filch’s groin suddenly disappeared.

“Thanks,” he muttered, tucking himself back into his trousers.

One side of Snape’s mouth went up. “Think nothing of it.”

They walked the rest of the way back to the castle in silence. But it was a comfortable silence, Filch thought.

*******

 

It wasn’t a one-off, as Filch had expected. But what happened with Snape didn’t become a regular thing, either.

Two Fridays after the first time, as they were walking home from Rosmerta’s (not quite as squiffed as before), Snape yanked Filch behind some bushes that lined the road about a mile away from the castle, and pulled Filch’s hand down to press it against his crotch.

Filch didn’t need to be asked twice. He spat into his palm and opened Snape’s trousers with the other hand. This time, he was able to make it last a bit longer, Snape shuddering and twisting under his hand before Filch ripped down his own trousers and reached around to grab Snape’s arse, pulling him hard against Filch, their two cocks rubbing hard and hot against each other as Filch’s rough palm caressed and surrounded them both. Snape’s moaning yesss, fuck, fuck, ahhhhh only made it better.

Snape never wanted to do anything inside of Hogwarts. Filch understood: the Headmaster seemed to know everything that happened inside the castle, and he didn’t fancy Dumbledore knowing about this, either.

They got each other off in May behind Hagrid’s hut, on an evening when the giant had gone off to Hogsmeade, Snape panting and thrusting into Filch’s mouth. And when Filch paid a visit after the end of term---to celebrate seeing the back of another class of pupils---to the back lane near Diagon where rentboys could be found, he ran into Snape there. Snape was negotiating a price with a short, dark-haired young man about Snape’s age with a gorgeous arse on him.

Well, perhaps they could get a discount for bulk purchase. When Filch joined them and asked the boy how much to do them both, Snape didn’t blink an eye. For just two Galleons more, they both got the boy in his small, shabby room in an alley off Knockturn. Snape rode the boy hard, mounting him from behind on the sagging bed and fucking him in the arse with sharp thrusts, grunting with effort, while Filch fucked the boy’s mouth

They stared at each other over the boy’s back, and Snape’s expression was fierce and desperate. Filch wondered briefly who Snape was thinking of while he fucked the rentboy, but the boy’s mouth was too hot and wet to think of anything else for very long, and he just nodded at Snape and clutched the boy’s hair more tightly.

He had to remind Snape to tip the boy.

**********

 

Snape went off to where ever he lived over the summer, but Filch lived at Hogwarts year round, caretakers not having the summers off. Snape returned in the autumn, like the pupils, and Filch wondered whether Snape would want to resume their Friday nights of cribbage and beer again.

As it turned out, he did. Cribbage games at Rosmerta’s happened some Fridays, although they didn’t walk home alone together, now. This year’s Defense professor seemed to spend every evening at Rosmerta’s, too. He was a lush, in Filch’s opinion, and sometimes latched on to Snape and Filch at the end of an evening, using them to make sure that he got home safely.

He’d still managed a handjob with Snape once, on a late September evening when they were walking home alone. Snape’s spunk covered Filch’s deft, fast hands and as always, he felt the tingle of magic as it seeped between his fingers. You couldn’t hold the sensation in your hands any more than water, though.

One October Saturday, Filch offered to pick up some slug repellent for Hagrid down in Hogsmeade. He’d been wanting to buy some tobacco and drop off some boots for repair, anyway. Half a mile outside of Hogsmeade, he turned a bend in the road and saw Snape, a collecting bag slung over one shoulder.

The cool breeze had brought a flush to Snape’s cheeks. Or maybe it was the stooping and mushroom picking. But Filch thought of how Snape had looked, panting and flushed against a tree trunk last spring, and suddenly wanted to feel the weight of Snape’s cock against his palm again.

“Fancy stepping off the path for a minute?” he asked.

Snape’s expression changed. “I’ve got to finish my collecting before these mushrooms dry out, sorry.” He glanced down at the bag Filch had dropped on the ground. “On your way into town?”

“I’m running an errand for Hagrid. Need to get my boots seen to, as well.”

“I could fix the boots for you,” Snape said, drawing out his wand.

“No need.” He could do for himself, always had.

“It’s ridiculous to pay good money to get your shoes fixed in Hogsmeade,” Snape said reasonably. Filch was reminded of his younger brother Titus, who’d always wanted to do magic for him, once he got his wand. As if being a Squib meant you were helpless.

Filch, although reluctant to accept Snape’s offer, reckoned Snape was right about the money. Slowly, he pulled the shabby boots out and Snape inspected them silently, before waving his wand over them. The soles reformed, worn spots now vanished, and the laces were now brand new. Snape had even polished them for him, Filch saw.

Did Snape think that he couldn’t even polish his own boots? Filch pressed his lips together.

“Thanks,” he said, a bit gruffly, although he didn’t feel particularly grateful. Snape waved one hand carelessly to say think nothing of it and turned back to his patch of mushroom, and Filch packed up his boots and set off again.

He would rather have paid to have his boots repaired, himself. But maybe a half-blood wouldn’t understand that. Snape didn’t even know how that was: to have every passing wizard see you as a charity case. And the closer someone got to you, the more likely they were to offer “help.”

By way of payback, he bargained down the shopkeeper on the price of the slug repellant, and bought himself a bottle of good Firewhiskey before he went back to the castle. He didn’t invite Snape to join him for a glass, either.

***********

 

Filch kept going to Rosmerta’s on Fridays. He’d been doing that before Snape joined the Hogwarts staff; he liked Rosmerta and her ale.

Filch didn’t need Snape in order to get a game, that was for certain. He began to invite the new Defense professor, Smethwyk, to play instead. Smethwyk turned out to be rather good at cribbage, and Filch never sensed any magic being used with he played with him. With something to think and talk about while they played, the man drank less, too. And he was easy on the eyes.

By the time Yuletide came along, Snape had stopped joining them as regularly, although he still came along occasionally. Snape seemed to be doing a lot of private research during his free time in the Restricted Section, which cut into his free time. And he clearly couldn’t abide Smethwyk.

No matter. Smethwyk wasn’t interested in a quick hand job on the way home, but you couldn’t ask for everything. Like Filch, he was a Pureblood, and he never put Filch in an awkward position. He understood how things were done

Maybe Snape would learn how things worked, too. Over time.

But then again, Filch’s mother had always said that blood _would_ tell. Maybe she’d been right.


End file.
